“No,” I ses, looking at 'im.
“I want to look the real thing,” he ses, speaking low so the landlord shouldn't hear. “I want to make myself the living image of you. If that don't fetch 'em I'll give up the stage and grow cabbages.”
“Make yourself like me?” I ses. “Why, you're no more like me than I'm like a sea-sick monkey.”
“Not so much,” he ses. “That's where the art comes in.”
He stood me another drink, and then, taking my arm in a cuddling sort o' way, and calling me “Dear boy,” 'e led me back to the wharf and explained. He said 'e would come round next evening with wot 'e called his make-up box, and paint 'is face and make 'imself up till people wouldn't know one from the other.
“And wot about your figger?” I ses, looking at 'im.
“A cushion,” he ses, winking, “or maybe a couple. And what about clothes? You'll 'ave to sell me those you've got on. Hat and all. And boots.”
I put a price on 'em that I thought would 'ave finished 'im then and there, but it didn't. And at last, arter paying me so many more compliments that they began to get into my 'ead, he fixed up a meeting for the next night and went off.
“And mind,” he ses, coming back, “not a word to a living soul!”
He went off agin, and, arter going to the Bull's Head and 'aving a pint to clear my 'ead, I went and sat down in the office and thought it over. It seemed all right to me as far as I could see; but p'r'aps the pint didn't clear my 'ead enough—p'r'aps I ought to 'ave 'ad two pints.